


you've got mail

by niccia



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bookstore AU, Developing Relationship, Epistolary relationship, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Just to Spice Things Up, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, So Much Poetry, a hint of angst, could be a bit sad since I have no shame, everyone is alive because I am a big old softie, if you have a soft spot for a certain Frenchmen you will love this, this will be a hell of a ride, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27437368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niccia/pseuds/niccia
Summary: « Quel che l’uomo vede, Amor gli fa invisibile, e l’invisibile fa vedere Amore." »(Ludovico Ariosto – L’Orlando Furioso)the au nobody asked for.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurjean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurjean/gifts).



> beta’d by the sweetest @fleurjean and many other kind soul, bless all of you for being so patient with me.
> 
> this is what you got when an Italian bookworm and movies lover falls in love with two of the best written characters she has ever seen in her entire life.

> “Don't tell the beloved, you are I  
>  and I am you, say  
>  the opposite of that: we are two guests  
>  of an excess, fugitive cloud.
> 
> Deviate, with all your might, deviate from the rule.  
>  Don't place two stars in one utterance  
>  and place the marginal next to the essential  
>  to complete the rising rapture.”
> 
> (Mahmoud Darwish)

**1.**

“Sometimes I just feel disconnected from everything.

It can happen anytime during the day, or the night, when I’m alone with my thoughts and all my books don’t seem like good companionship anymore. I could sit alone in my room for hours or eternity altogether, laying in my bed thinking about everything and nothing at all. Unravelling each little thread that tangled itself inside the massive chaos that my heart and my soul were and, in a way, still are.

Sometimes I wish I could still be able to believe in something or someone, to pray wearing my heart on a sleeve while isolating myself from the entire world, trapping it all outside closed doors and windows open on the night sky. When everything still made sense, at least to me. When I still felt something burning somewhere inside me, between my ribcage and the pounding flesh of my heart. I prayed with eyes wide shut and my soul blooming like a summer flower, following the sweet hope for a righteous kingdom to come for us all, for me to find all the answers I’m still searching inside myself and the few people I keep close to me. 

If there’s no one above us to protect us, to guide us through darkness and struggles, then what’s the meaning of it all? How could I go gentle into the night, without any light to show me the way?”

_[sent]_

______________________________________________

Nile was so damn proud of her three-room apartment, third floor, placed right in the heart of Notting Hill. Sure, many would remember the neighbourhood only because of that famous (and quite cheesy, if you’d ask her) movie, but that didn’t matter at all. That was the place she chose after a long, exhausting house-hunting with Andy or Nicky by her side, ready to give good advice when required and hit the road when the house turned out to be a rip-off. She worked two jobs and saved every penny she could to finally be able to afford the monthly rent and, hell, if she intended to keep that place as nice as she could. The place was old indeed, the plumbing a little dated and for sure some fixtures needed to be settled for good – but anything would be way better than the crowded student residence she’d just ran away from. Being a senior year student sure wasn’t easy anywhere, but trying to get an honest-to-god place for yourself in London, during these days, could easily become the next mission impossible. 

That’s why they all agree to meet at her place that night, because when the youngest member of your lovely and dysfunctional group of friends gets such a power-up at least she deserves some booze and a take-away dinner. Nicky shows up first, a warm smile on his lips and a bottle of Italian red wine in his hand, most likely bought in one of the small, dusty and lovely wine shops where his grandfather once used to go. He wasn’t a certified _sommelier_ as Booker is, but he did know where to find good wine to dine with, and during his last years he took care teaching his one and only grandson how to spot the best ones. In the other hand the old, well-kept edition of “Huckleberry Finn” Nile asked for two or three weeks before, when she came to his shop during her lunch break to hunt for these old, hidden treasures she always lived for. She liked “her relics as neat as possible”, as Andy once said. To be fair, that night they were all kind of drunk. 

Booker arrives only minutes later, still on time and fresh from the shower, one cigarette burning from his lips and an absorbed look on his eyes. The very moment he glances down to the bottle Nicky’s still holding in his hand, the thin line of his lips folds itself into an amused smile ( _“Tu m’as triché, mon ami.”_ ) as he starts swaying his own bottle of French wine and leaves his shoes by the door. As he once said to Nicky after making sure anyone (especially Nile) wasn’t listening to them, her precision and accuracy could easily be defined as “military”. Better be sure not to leave any muggy footsteps around her place.

« Anyone got news from Andy, by the way? » asks Nile from the kitchen, while Booker fumbles with the first bottle and their glasses and Nicky gives a quick glance at his smartphone. Andy went AWOL two hours before and hasn’t logged in since, not replying any of their messages let alone sending a text to let them know where she was. She’s already thirty minutes late, and even if none of them is really fearing for her safety they’re starting to entertain themselves by making assumptions about where she may be. « I knew she had her MMA classes, this evening. Maybe she overstayed? » prompts Nile, followed quickly by a snort from Booker’s direction and a glass of wine handled to her seconds later. « Or maybe she crashed at Quynh’s house and she’s likely to show up any minute now, hair damp from the shower and without any clue where she threw her bra away. _Nous parions?_ » he adds, just seconds before the door storms open and Andy enters in with (obviously) hair still wet and messy and a bold smile on her lips, already handing out the paper bag she’s still holding. Baklavas, of course. She still needs to make amends for being so late. 

Pizza isn’t an option anymore, each of them already so hungry that the mere thought of waiting more than forty minutes to finally eat sounds now like an honest-to-god torture. Andy, with adrenaline still pumping hard from the recent rush and her sweet encounter both, suits herself almost immediately with a beer can and a cigarette (the latter “borrowed” from Booker’s jacket), crashing on the sofa with her feet placed on the low coffee table. Her gaze rests on Nicky and never gives up, following him carefully as he heads to the kitchen to put something together for them to eat. She knows by her very heart the secret language of his silence, his gestures or even his sole stance, how to seize every little, revealing detail of whatever could be shaking inside the tender walls of his heart. She listens and she waits for him to open up, to give her just the tiniest glimpse for her to grasp on and unravel with kind and merciless fingers. Sharp like a blade, like she has always been. Her smile a cunning red strike as she finally allows herself to pry into the question that has long since blossomed at the bottom of her thoughts, making a good use of the brief moment of peace at the end of their dinner when everyone is sipping quietly the coffee Booker made just few minutes before.

« Tell us about it. »  
« About what, Andy? »  
« About anything bothering you right now. You’ve been pretty distracted since I’ve crashed here. »

Her words ring loudly in the nice silence that has lulled them until her question, making every single person in the room turn in their direction, eyes wide open, their now empty coffee cups held mid-air. They sit in silence, waiting for him to say something or nothing at all, not a single soul brave enough to part their lips and break the dense silence by making even the slightest sound. He watches them thinking, waiting, almost able to feel the background noise of their thoughts and their first assumptions. Rather than indulge himself in the noisy clatter of unnecessary words, he would always choose the comfort of observing in silence. That night, he’s trying to figure out if sharing a memory he has kept safely inside his heart would be worth the risk. When he finally puts his cup down, his lips are curved into a soft smile.

______________________________________________

His soul was wearing thin.

After spending the last few weeks running breathless after work meetings, skype calls, agreements and transactions, he was finally starting to feel more like a lifeless robot than an actual human being made of flesh, blood and bones. When he eventually had the chance to stop and look at himself in his bedroom’s mirror, he could literally jolt on his feet at the mere sight of his weary eyes. What happened to the warm light that once shone deep in his gaze? What happened to the loving smile that used to grace the curve of his lips? Gone, apparently. Buried under the dull everyday life to which he voted himself the very day he had to move to London, nearly three months before. 

He had no chance but to follow his family into their last strong-willed purpose: to create the next business empire in London’s financial scene, a venture so well-structured and assorted in its offer to soon be able to overthrow the current GDO blue-ribbons. An ultimate goal his family had placed entirely on his shoulders to weigh onto. He was drained, to say the very least. Overworked, jaded, dark circles drawn around his eyes from too many sleepless nights spent surrounded by and reports, a bone-weary awareness growing somewhere inside him: he couldn’t take it anymore. He had finally reached his very limit. 

It’s a late mid-fall morning when he finally starts to feel as if his soul is crumbling down, one piece at time. Locked in his own office, somewhere in the business district of Southwark, he feels the sudden, desperate need to get out of there as soon as possible. Thankfully his schedule doesn’t see any deadline or meetings coming for the rest of the day, and the very thought of hanging around in his office, answering emails and checking current practices until late hours is, to put it mildly, unbearable. He has to get out, he has to get the fuck out before he can fly off the handle once and for all – and sure he’s to going to put as much distance as possible between himself and that damn desk. Bribing his own secretary is another matter, and an easy one: all he has to do is give her his word he will come back as soon as possible with a fresh croissant from the French bakery she loves so much. 

« Just make sure you won’t stay away for too long, Mr. Al-Kaysani. » he can almost hear her chuckling from the speaker, making him smile a little. She was pretty thoughtful, Mrs. Evangelista. She has been working for him for three years now and, most of all, she didn’t think twice when asked to follow him to London, ready to take her part in his family’s new business project. « Also, I must remind you about the dinner with your family, this evening. I’ve already sent a memo to your inbox. » after that, she leaves him alone with his plans of freedom. Leaving the office still wearing his usual suit was utterly out of question, not for sheer fear of being recognized but for the plain desire of further comfort: he has to thank himself for keeping a pair of more laid-back jeans and a simple black t-shirt inside one of his closet’s drawers. Godsend, on such occasions. 

Freshly changed, dark sunglasses now on, he only has to hurry himself to the elevators and down to the street to finally enjoy a glimpse of sunshine and lovely fresh breeze against his skin. He takes a long, deep breath, just to feel his lungs burning along and his body finally starting to relax and his mind unwind slowly, leaving every concern or annoyance behind. Why even bother to leave his phone on, anyway? He doesn’t have the slightest intention to pay attention to any eventual phone call or work emails, at least for the next hour. Or two, depending on his very intention of getting Mrs Evangelista mad at him. 

Even if November is still far away the sky is slowly getting cloudy, painting itself in smooth shades of grey. His footsteps are now stilled by the crispy, reddish fallen leaves that dust softly the sidewalk. He keeps walking without haste, taking time and pleasure in the mere act of observing his surroundings, the buildings on each side of the road, the crowd he was walking into and every smile, grimace or frown that his eyes can seize while passing by. Soon he finds himself wishing he had brought his drawing pad with him, even just for small, simple sketches, glimpses of beauty captured on thick paper. Soon, what started off as a brief stroll around the block soon becomes an actual trip around the neighbourhood, guiding him along lanes still unfamiliar but wonderful compared to the dull everyday reality of his workday. He starts feeling like a young boy again, that sudden rush of childish curiosity healing like a breath of fresh air. Suddenly, he can’t do anything but smile.

That’s when he finds himself stumbling into a spot he has never seen before. A detail that stands out among everything that surrounds it, something unable to pass unnoticed. Like a raw stone gracefully embedded in an otherwise pretentious and irritating display of cocky modern innovation and wealth. Odd and charming at once, catching his eyes before he can even realize. Clamped between fancy buildings, it flaunts its own raw beauty built in wood, bricks and glass. A small and modest book-shop, whose single window displays dozens and dozens of different books, neatly lined and stacked one upon the other without any apparent rule. The very classics of European literature lie beside poetry collections signed by authors he has never heard about. High-flown intellectuals share their lights with unknown emerging novelists, as their owner could not decide which one deserved to be admired more than the others. And he did. He lets his eyes wander from one book to another, drinking every single detail in before finally adverting his gaze towards the sign right above him: _“Il Cuore Rivelato”_. Whether it’s Italian or Spanish he can’t put his finger on it yet, but it leaves him transfixed. What else could he do other than following the gentle whisper of his heart telling him to take courage and step inside?

He’s welcomed by a nice scent of wood, paper and something that smells just like amber. A scent quite familiar but unknown at the same time, intense enough to lead him deeper inside the shop, through shelves full of books nestled in a rather pleasant silence. When was the last time he visited a library or a bookshop, he asks himself, his warm gaze now fixed upon the small counter right before his eyes. His steps are now hesitant and his breath catches itself on top of his lungs when the tall man behind the counter finally lifts his gaze to meet his eyes. A single moment, and he knows he’s now lost forever. In a heartbeat he has lost every single hope of saving himself and getting his heart back from him, whose pale and delicate hands are still holding the heavy book he was reading only moments before. The librarian smiles silently at him, his light green eyes barely hidden by soft locks of fair hair, before focusing again on the pages he was slowly turning when Yusuf surprised him. He’s parting his lips to say something, anything at least, when the librarian starts reading, his eyes now lit up by a light so bright it leaves him breathless. His voice soft and smooth like springtime rain, so peaceful and soothing he actually has to force himself to slow down the thrilled beat of his heart.

« Quel che l’uomo vede, Amor gli fa invisibile, e l’invisibile fa vedere Amore." »

Barely more than a whisper, the invisible embrace gently stroking his heart enough to wrap its soft fingers around it chords just when he thinks he could endure it. That he could really go back to his normal, daily life, pretending nothing happened during that warm, mid-fall late morning. He is lost, and he knows a single word from that man would be enough for him to give him his own heart without hesitation. He’s lost, unable to say even the slightest word. Relieved when the librarian smiles at him, gracious, before rescuing his heart again.

« Welcome. »

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tu m’as triché, mon ami." - "You tricked me, my friend"
> 
> "Nous parions?" - "Are we betting on it?"
> 
> "Il Cuore rivelato" - "The heart revealed"
> 
> « Quel che l’uomo vede, Amor gli fa invisibile, e l’invisibile fa vedere Amore." » - "What we do see, Love makes invisible. And what is invisible makes us see Love"


	2. Chapter 2

> _“When it is day with thee, my friend, it is night with me; yet even  
>  then I speak of the noontide that dances upon the hills and of  
>  the purple shadow that steals its way across the valley;_
> 
> _for thou  
>  canst not hear the songs of my darkness nor see my wings beating  
>  against the stars--and I fain would not have thee hear or see. I  
>  would be with night alone.”_
> 
> _(Khalil Gibran)_

**2.**

“I’ve built my walls so high I can’t climb them anymore.

I’ve stacked one book at time as the bricks I didn’t know I needed, I used my poems and my words to write one message after another along them. I was asking and screaming for a helping hand I didn’t know I needed. As the world kept spinning around me, cornering me like a scared animal, I kept on running. I kept hiding, hoping for every written page to be the one that could save me, the one that could open my eyes and give me all the answers I was still looking for. I filled my house with countless books I knew I didn’t have enough time to read, with all the writers and poets my mother used to read to me when I was still a child. When bedtime was still doomed with the harmless nightmares that all children get during the sweet embrace of the night. 

She used to sit on the side of my bed, a book in her hand, the smell of the mint tea she served us hours before still lingering in the air. I remember her asking me to tell her the first thing that would came in my mind and choosing a poem right after my answer. I remember her voice, sweet and soothing like honey and cream, the comforting thought of being cherished, love and protected. She gave me the words and the books to build my armour and my fortress to defend for the years to come, because she knew too well how tender my heart could be.

To this day I still feel the warmth of her embrace. When I close my eyes I can still hear the sound of her voice. And my heart breaks with pain when I remember I am no longer able to hold her into my arms. To feel her fingers stroking my face, telling me to be strong, to pursue my own happiness not matter at what cost.

How can I go forward, when my walls still bleed so much?”

[sent]

______________________________________________

« I’m not calling you some blonde lassies, mate. »  
« It’s a french cocktail, you thickhead.»

An usual friday night to be said, spent for the most part of it inside a tiny brewery on Thames’ right bank. Booker’s favourite, that little pub had immediately become their chosen stop for a night out. A soft spot, maybe, since that was the place where Andy pinned down Booker the first time they met (and not for the last time, to be honest), fuming over his shameful version of a pick-up line. 

Here they are, the three of them cramped at the bar counter, shoulder to shoulder, and sure they can be quite a sight when teamed up like this. At his left side Andy’s still playing with her unlit cigarette, beside her a double bourbon on the rock and. On the other side, Bookers is knocking down his cocktail while glaring at the bartender he had screamed against just minutes before. Nicky’s sitting between the two of them, sipping from his glass of red wine and listening to their hysterical bantering, a soft smile already painted on his lips. He knows well what they’re talking about and he knows the reason he’s not giving too much as he enjoys their back and forth. He gives the bartender an apologetic smile when he looks in their direction, lifting a brow when his lovely french friend starts ranting about a new website about people exchanging letters to each other. 

« Letters, Booker? Really? You’re telling me you were seriously trying to flirt with some girls you never saw before by writing actual emails? In 2019? »  
«It’s just another way to meet new people, there’s nothing creepy about that. You know I’m a gentleman, and hitting on ladies in a pub has gotten so démodé. And I do have my standards when it comes to flirting, _chèrie_. »  
« Standards? I love you, Book, I really do. But your “standard flirting” is just lame. »  
« I can be pretty smooth. »  
« Pretty smooth my ass. I reckon I’ve kicked your sweet french ass the first and last time you tried to woo me. »

They could go on for hours at least and he knows that pretty well, being the first one to separate them when an argument that started as innocent as possible ends into a heated fuss. Nicolò can be the wisest of them all, always knowing which words to use just at the right time. Quiet, maybe, but not careless. At all. He’s the first one to notice that Andy’s old-generation phone is buzzing and ringing for three minutes already, her too involved into proving her point (something about the timeless charm of letters made of paper and ink) to notice that little detail. He can’t read properly the name stated at the top of the cracked screen but proceeds almost immediately to poke gently on her shoulder, telling her to pay attention to her phone and whoever’s calling.

« Who’s that? »  
« Quynh? » tries Nicky, a knowing smile on his face and a laugh hidden into another sip of his wine. « Maybe? »  
« Fuck you, my love. » she laughs. Her eyes wrinkle a little at the corners when she smiles, and Nicky adores that small detail of his old, beloved friend «It’s Nile, actually. Maybe that senior year dinner party wasn’t as “bomb” as she said. » she smirks, moving her index finger towards “speakers” option « This is going to be fun. »

It takes few seconds for Nile’s voice to echo from the worn-out speakers, strong and clear despite that annoying background noise. « Hey, Andy. How’s going down there? »  
« Hi, kid. Just cracking some bottles with our guys. »  
« Sounds nice. » they can hear her laughing, maybe already looking for a quieter spot to sit down and keep their conversation going. Andy takes another sip of her bourbon and talks again, winking at a very amused Nicky « Just to know a millennial’s point of view – shut up, Book, I know damn well you’re not a boomer – about hooking up online. »  
« No, _attend_. This is not about hooking up. The hell, you really want to kill poetry off tonight. » mutters Booker, sipping his drink before asking the bartender a second round. Pretending to be hurt by her words until he gets annoyed by his own, silly charade. He warms her then with a sheepish smile and a hand placed firmly on her shoulder. One fond, gentle touch. The heedful friendship that never required many words to fully express its truly affection. 

« I’ve tried tinder a couple of times, never liked it anyway. Why? Our boys are trying new things out? »  
« Booker was talking about some letter-like website. Something about sending letters anonymously to anonymous users. Kinda nostalgic, don’t you think? But, you know, I can figure him writing long love letters. Very european-like. »  
« Thank you, Andy, very nice of you. » Booker chimes in, tapping his now empty glass on the table’s stained surface, carved in dark wood and not so often cleaned « For the briefest moment I really thought you’d call me an idiot. »  
« Aren’t called “himbos”, now? You know, when you’re dumb but good-looking too? » they can bet that Nile’s trying her best not to laugh at this point, her voice hesitant in the midst of the senior party still going strong.  
« You know how they say, kid. He’s a himbo if he’s from the Himbeaux region of France. Otherwise he’s just a sparkling dumbass. Hey Book, where’s your family from again? »

That’s when her and Booker start their signature bickering, mixing nearly three different languages to the delight of any patrons still inside the brewery. English, French and some of the Greek cursing that Andromache’s mother, a Classical Studies and Archaeology professor, taught her when she was a little girl, filled with a fighting spirit that often exploded unannounced and untamed. Nicky has never been run over by these short fits of rage, but he’s always ready to pacify her when things could get wrong easily, a reassuring hand over her shoulder and wise words on his tongue. Knowing well what it means to feel that fire burning inside yourself and not being able to put it out. 

But how little his friends know, still arguing about the positive aspects of starting or not an epistolary relationship with some stranger online, telling him he should give it a chance at least once. They just can’t imagine he’s been exchanging actual letters for few weeks now with someone he has never met before, from that sleepless night when he dumped into that infamous website mail-based. He had nothing to lose and too many thoughts that threatened to undermine the harmony he worked so hard for. So why not give it (and himself) a chance?

What would they think? What would they say? Would they be surprised, at least?  
He has never been the kind of a man who attends chat rooms or dating apps, but he was always fascinated by the idea of writing, sending and waiting for letters. He that always had a soft spot for everything that had something “vintage” in it, or even the weakest connection with the past. That sleepless night he chose deliberately not to contact any particular user, but to let destiny decide for him instead. He left a “message in a bottle”, an open letter sent to whoever had put London as their specific location and their in-box open to anonymous letters to be received.

Nicky didn’t get an answer for an entire week. Until a particularly tiring sunday evening, when a little red dot had popped up on the envelope-shaped icon on his desktop, warning him of his very first letter. He nearly jumped on his feet, making a fuss of his persian cat still asleep on the sofa next to him. _Mignin_ had looked at him, sleepy eyes and ruffled fur, before jumping off the sofa to wander to the kitchen, surely annoyed by that dreamer dad of his. For his part, Nicky was quick to grab the mug full of tea he was drinking only few minutes before, taking a reassuring sip before heading to the desk and his laptop – the latter looking more like a vicious monster than an actual harmless computer. He had to take another sip and a long, deep breath, before taking a seat and open his account again, his big blue eyes already facing the monitor as they were searching for a thread that was already there for him to grab.

“ _You’ve got mail_ ”.

______________________________________________

His live may have become an endless building site. 

At least, this particular building they are completing for nearly two weeks now is starting to look more like a silent beast than an ordinary mall to him. All glass, bricks and concrete, the masterpiece his family has already spent thousands on – of which he should be more than proud by now. But is he? Is he really that proud, is he really that focused when walking down the aisles to supervise the final details? Acting like the boss he’s supposed to be, wearing a “professional” mask that he knows pretty well it doesn’t suit him at all? Sure Mrs Evangelista can make up for his shortcomings, her eyes sharp and concentrated on all the drawings and projects neatly crammed inside the heavy file she’s holding in her hands. Too bad he feels like making some conversation, that late afternoon.

« How’s your wife doing lately? I’ve heard she got her PhD this week. »  
« She did, and we’re going out for dinner this evening. She deserves to celebrate and be celebrated. »  
« I’ll send her something by the end of the day. Don’t look at me like that, I swear I won’t forget this time. » he knows he will remember it last-minute, and she knows that too. His gift is going to be so damn late, but she won’t be angry or annoyed with him, knowing too well how busy and absorbed her boss can be. That’s why he cherishes her so much – one of the many reasons, actually.

They move towards the huge main lobby and quickly pass over the elegant corner bar which his grandfather insisted so much for, all around them the novel and new releases section and its empty shelves ready to welcome the volumes previously ordered and expected to be delivered the next day. Upstairs there’s his favourite department: the children narrative and young adult sections, together with a play-area for children and a more discreet tea room for the “grown-ups”. He had to fight to get these two last spot in particular, to get over his narrow-minded family and its stubborn resolution not to dare even the slightest bet. They were stubborn, but he was determined. After all, it was them who taught him to fight for what he wanted, then why not show them what he could do?

As their inspection comes to an end, he finds himself torn between different feelings. Between his silent pride for the hard work his family has always put into their past and present business, all the ambition that is handed down from father to son, from mother to daughter, burning like fire in their blood and bones. Between the awareness about how the news of the new opening were already able to put into trouble too many small family business, all of them concerned about eventual and even dreadful financial losses. He saw them, hanging “sales” signs on their shops’ windows, their eyes sad and worried even if they struggled to show hope and confidence to their few customers. He felt guilty, he feels guilty even now, surrounded by the shining results of months of hard work.

Is this the right choice? Is this the right path for him, for all the people he cares for, for the neighbourhood he wants to put new roots in? Their business’ balance sheet could maybe suffer a significant economic loss in case of an initial failure - but was it worth all these family-run shops to crumble and shut down? Should the most fragile and vulnerable individuals pay the price for the greedy ambitions of the few?  
He’s so absorbed in his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice that Mrs Evangelista is talking again and she’s talking to him. He wonders when she actually started to wear black lipstick, but surely it looks really good on her. “Punk”, as his mother would have called it.

« Just tell me if you want to cancel or postpone the meeting scheduled for tomorrow, boss. » he can’t help a smile, still amused by that little habit of her. No, he won’t ever get used to the idea of being called “boss”, but at the same time he knows she will keep calling him so. He has accepted his fate years ago. « We cancel it, they will pester us until next Christmas. Maybe send them an email to know if they agree for a quick meeting next week. Better not to overfill our weeked, and I’m sure you are with me with this one. » now it’s his time to throw the slightest joke, and he’s pleased when she indulges in a heartfelt chuckle. 

They part ways right outside the main entrance after a quick goodbye and a short cigarette break for her. Even after all this time she still asks him if he want to share a smoke and again he declines politely, not bothered at all by that harmless distraction of her. After a small while he’s pretty unsure about what to do with that little free time: it’s still too early to go straight home and he has no intention of facing the deafening silence of his apartment alone, nor does he want to attend one of the fancy dinner arranged by his father. He would rather get to the flower shop just one block away and find the bouquet he will send the very next day to Mrs Evangelista and her wife. It’s just a coincidence that said flower shop is right next to that particular bookshop, “ _Il Cuore Rivelato_ ”. Nothing strange about him taking that chance to drop by and say hi, right? Another nice coincidence is his detour to the Starbucks point at the other end of the street just to order two caramel brulée lattes on the go. Just a coincidence. Absolutely.

The dreamy smile already on his lips fades as soon as he arrives at the bookshop and takes a glimpse of the librarian bent on the counter, tired, both his elbows resting against the wooden surface and a hand holding his frowned forehead. A bitter vision quite different from the one that has blessed him just one week before. From that warm shy smile and those eyes full of light. He gently opens the door to make as little noise as possible and approaches the young man without speaking, not yet, walking without haste in his direction. When he finally reaches the counter he places one of the two cups next to his arm, a single “thud” that breaks the silence that reigns inside the shop. That’s when the librarian finally notices his presence and does to speak, when Yusuf anticipates him.

« Don’t say anything. I was passing by and I thought of you. »  
The librarian smiles, already wrapping his fingers around his cup and closing his eyes to inhale deeply the sweet delicate smell of caramel and cream. He looks better already, his cheeks now less pale than before while he takes the first sip of hot coffee, and Yusuf thinks he could die a million times because of that smile. That thought so intense he can almost feel it sinking deep into his pounding chest.  
« I reckon you didn’t tell me your name yet. » he says after a while, his voice tainted by something that sound too much like sadness and worry. A little distant, maybe, but already softening around its edges, as if all that milk and caramel are doing well their job. He can feel the atmosphere getting more light each passing moment, and he feels himself thinking he’s got the slightest credit for that lovely smile. That, maybe, this smile is for him too.

« Yusuf. »  
« Nicolò. » the young man adds before lifting the cup to his lips and taking another sip. « I’m afraid I’m not in my best shape, nor mood, tonight. I had some bad news earlier this afternoon and I think I’ll need a good night of sleep to come up with any idea. » Nicolò pauses and drinks his coffee in silence, then drifts his gaze to him again, his eyes so blue that Yusuf thinks again he will die right here with his very heart between his bare hands. « Will I see you tomorrow, then? » The words sound like a blessing to his soul, music to his ears, and he can’t help himself smiling like a child. « Sure. I’ll drop by before lunchtime. Will I find you here? » Nicolò lowers his gaze for a moment, lost in his thoughts for a while, before something written on a little black agenda left open on the counter seems to wipe away any last qualm about him having enough time for this kind stranger. « I would love to. » he finally says, that smile now warmer on his face. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. 

The word resonates endlessly in his mind even when he has already left the store, as he lifts one arm to call a cab and finally return home. 

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. How could he have imagined that a simple word become his own salvation, his blessing? 

Tomorrow.  
Just one night to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Attend" - "Wait"
> 
> "Mignin" - kitty in genoese


	3. Chapter 3

> _“Careful. Do not let the sadness of my features,  
>  my pale colour, or the shiver of my emotions deceive you._
> 
> _If my bewilderment and the lines of  
>  my torrential poet’s sadness  
>  should appear shimmering on my brow,  
>  it is only the feelings that inspire pain in my soul.”_
> 
> _(Nazik Al-Malaika)_

**3.**

“Some nights I find myself wishing I could just be a little stronger.

A little braver, a little softer at the edges when it comes to take lead and action.  
Too many times I’ve found my shelter behind the unbearable fickleness of things, too many times I’ve blamed fate itself because deep down my darkest being I didn’t want to bear the burden of my own flaws and shortcomings.

I can’t look them in the eye when they tell me how strong I am, how stoic I am, because that would mean dropping the mask that hides the sharpest and most troublesome sides of myself. It’s draining, this little charade of mine. It’s tiring, and the thought of putting an end to it sounds more charming day by day.  
I’m tempted by tenderness, yet I’m still terrified by the desolation of my own fears.

What if I’m not strong enough? What if I’m going to crumble and fall under the weight of it all?  
My shoulders feel heavier, my friend. I am tired and restless, and everything I need right now is like a foreign language to my ears and my tongue.

I need a light to cut through the darkness.”

_[sent]_

______________________________________________

« He asked you out? »  
« Are you serious? Jesus fucking C- »  
« Language! »  
« Don’t you even try. »

It took him only two minutes, barely two sentences and nothing else to cause an actual mayhem. Next thing he knows Nile is jumping and hollering, fists closed and eyes sparkling with absolute joy. Andy and Booker are already absorbed in their usual bickering, of course, one telling the other “I knew it” and “the hell you didn’t” in an endless back and forth. Only Quynh stays silent, her hand still messing with Andromaca’s short and silky hair, a question lingering quietly around her. Nicky can smell it in the air. He knows her well enough to at least guess if she’s going to voice her thoughts or not, and he also knows the only thing he can do is to wait patiently for her to speak up.

« Do you think this is a good idea? » when she speaks everyone in the room falls silent and draws their eyes to Nicky, waiting for him to say something. Yes or no, anything. « You barely know this man, and yet you’re talking about him like he rightfully fell from God-only-knows which star like a blessing. Do not take me wrong, darling. I only wish for you the best, to be happy and such. But I also know too well how soft your heart can be, even if you don’t talk too openly about it. I can get worried too, you know. » this time she graces him with a tentative smile than doesn’t reach her eyes «But this is up to you. What do you think about this man? »

After her question time seems to move more slowly. Every little gesture looks amplified and every noise sounds quieter, from Andy’s cigarette burning in the ashtray to the dull clicking of the teaspoon inside his cup. He is waiting and they’re waiting, too. For the first time in years he doesn’t really know what to say or how to say it. He doesn’t want to lie nor faking anything up and surely the sole idea of acknowledge these new-born thoughts is risky at least.  
He isn’t ready to be this vulnerable yet.

« Look, Quynh. I don’t think it’s on us to judge- »  
« He felt safe. It felt right. » Nicky feels lighter the very moment the words leave his lips, even if he knows that everyone’s gaze is fixed on him right now. Nicky takes another sip of his tea, the hot liquid warm and welcoming on his tongue. « I felt like it was destiny for us to meet. »  
« And who are we to challenge destiny? » this time Booker’s voice is soft and faded seconds later by a slow drag from his cigarette. Soft as the light pat he gives on Nicky’s shoulder, gentle and affectionate, like he’s encouraging him to keep talking. 

« I think fate can give us the right chances when we’re willing to accept them. We must take the risk in order to achieve happiness. » Nicky puts down his teacup, paying attention not to get too close to Andy’s and Booker’s ashtray. « I’m not saying I am already picturing a long and happy life with this man that I barely know, but at the same time I don’t want to regret anything. »  
Quynh is listening, a lit cigarette between her index and middle finger and an indecipherable expression painted on her beautiful face. When Nicky falls silent again she smiles and looks down on Andy still nestled on her legs, a quick glance before drifting her gaze on him again.

« Then go for it. Take this chance and pay attention to no qualms. There’s no point in letting things go without even trying. » Quynh pauses for a bit and gives him a quick wink « And if things go wrong, just call us. Me and my beloved will gladly kick his gorgeous ass. »  
« Are we really talking about his allegedly fine ass now? »  
« Shut up Booker. Like you didn’t brag for hours about how cool Nicky was the first time you guys met. »  
« Sure I did. But I don’t remember bragging about his ass. »  
« Do not worry, dear. You still are our favourite token heterosexual. »  
« So sweet. »

He would gladly listen to his old and dearest friends’ bickering for hours, but his tea is getting cold and he really needs some pieces of good advice. So he volunteers to make coffee for everyone and his offering is welcomed with different kinds of cheering and gratitude, and he’s glad that Nile actually joins him inside the kitchen. The kid’s smart. Sometimes too quick and intuitive to let anything pass unnoticed or unnamed, always ready to reach out a hand to help. She is so precious and Nicky knows well he can count on her anytime. This night he could really use some good help.

« How do you feel? » like she just read his mind like an open book, Nile nudges him with her shoulder while searching for some clean cups. Her eyes are big and prying, inquiring but considerate at the same time, because under any circumstances she would violate the privacy of one of her dearest friends.  
« I am, I really am. » Nicky can guess why she asked. The bad breakup he had to get through that summer was never a mystery, after all. There was anger, betrayal and tears, so many tears. The two of them agreed to cut tries for good but the sudden and sheer silence that followed was the hardest and cruellest thing to endure. Was it possible to completely erase someone from your life after all the love that you shared? 

The smell of freshly brewed coffee takes him away from the old memories and Nicky quickly helps Nile pouring the hot liquid into the small cups. She still remembers how miserable he was back then, maybe she’s worrying about his heart being in danger again. She’s considerate, she’s a real friend, but it’s way too soon to indulge in such concerns. 

« Just a coffee between new acquaintance, Nice. Somebody to talk to, somebody to know better, no matter if the room seemed to light up every time I saw him smile to me. » Nicky lips curve into a soft smile and his cheeks feels suddenly warmer « But I won’t be hurt, Nile trust me. I shall protect myself from this. » They fell silent for a while as the city traffic and their friends’ from the next room slowly become the only sounds around them. Their silence is enjoyable as usual though, but Nicky can quite sense that Nile would gladly keep investigating his state of heart and mind. But it’s not worth it. It’s not that he’s going to fall in love with a man he barely knows for the rest of his life. He shall protect himself.

« Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble. »  
« Since when the younger worries so much about the older? »  
« Since the youngest is taking martial arts lessons from Andy and she’s always ready to kick some ass. »  
He can’t help the laugh that bursts from his lips, can’t help hugging his friend like she’s the most wonderful creature in this world. He’s lucky to have her, to have them.  
He’s so lucky.

« I promise. »

______________________________________________

It’s a nice snowy day.

Since that morning the thought has followed him like a silken shadow. It lingered quietly in the back of his mind while he went on with his usual day, so hushed and low that when he takes a look through the wide windows of his office the gold-painted snow of the late morning almost takes him by surprise. He doesn’t like cold weather but he does love snow. He loves the way that thick white blanket makes everything look more innocent and delicate as if you were walking into a fairy tale. Maybe this is just a bit like a dream, or at least that’s how Yusuf feels at the thought of seeing Nicolò again this afternoon. Just a matter of hours now until he can see that smile and those light eyes again, and that’s vivid enough to feel his heart beating faster, sweet little traitor hidden inside his chest.

« Have a cup of coffee, Mr Al-Kaysani. Or maybe not, that might not be the best thing to calm your anxiety right now. » Mrs. Evangelista adds shortly after with a smug smile on her lips. Truth to be said, he’s not actually concerned about the date (is this a real date, though?) but maybe he’s starting to get some tiny expectations towards it all. Even if it’s ok not to be completely blasé at the same time he knows he doesn’t need to hype up his hopes and yearnings. 

« I am not. We are going to get some coffee at his bookstore, we will talk, maybe we’re going to know each other a little more by the end of the day. It’s not a date, or at last I think so. I’m not nervous. »  
« I see. Then I won’t ask you what on the heart that poor piece of paper has ever done to you to be treated as such. » Yusuf looks down and frowns at the crumpled paper between his fingers, what’s left of what once used to be a harmless draft of a contract. Well, maybe he is a little nervous, but that’s one of the side effects of being a human being: the natural predisposition to feel a wide range of emotions, especially when it comes to heart and its desires. Maybe he is a little nervous, after all. And he’s grateful that she’s not laughing at him for being such a predictable man.  
« I will handle your schedule while you’re away. Enjoy your break and do not worry about a thing, boss. » she cracks up a soft smile « I am sure it’s going to be a rather pleasant day for you. »

______________________________________________

« What do you do again? »  
The question lingers in the hair alongside with the nice smell of their coffees to go. For the umpteenth time since Yusuf has met Nicolò he doesn’t really know how to answer. The most obvious thing to do would be telling him about his job, about his family’s business and their decades of achievements. However, this is not the case. Not when Nicolò’s bookstore is one of the small family businesses that are being threatened by the Al-Kaysani corporation. 

« I’m currently running the family business. »  
« May I ask you what is this business about? »  
Here it is, the awkward silence, the fingers fiddling nervously with the warm cardboard of his coffee cup.  
« Trade. Antiquities. Trade in antiquities. »  
« Which ones? »  
It’s fine, Yusuf, do not panic. Keep breathing and try to remember the improv lessons you took near a year ago. A plan, think of a plan and do it now before the most handsome man you have ever seen in your meaningless life will think that you are a newbie. That’s when his gaze stops on a beautiful art book featuring paintings from the 15th century and suddenly he comes up with an idea.

« Paintings, mainly. One of my mother’s dream was to open an art gallery. » that isn’t exactly a lie, since it was his mother who taught him to love art in all its forms. She could spend entire afternoons inside a museum or an art gallery, completely surrounded by what made her happy the most. And he was deeply in love with the bliss of pure joy that was painted all over her eyes, because she would glow like the brightest star in the firmament.  
As he speaks Nicolò’s eyes light up and the librarian just _stretches_ out towards him like a lazy cat, like a thrilled boy who suddenly found himself inside his favourite candy store. He is glowing, and Yusuf is forever lost. And it’s right here, in the most perfect moment, that life decides to play a funny trick on him. Because too easy was never fun.

« Nicola! »  
An ear-splitting voice suddenly breaks the sublime harmony that had been created inside the bookstore, just when Nicolò was about to make another question, and a middle-aged woman emerges from behind the door of what looks like a cramped warehouse. Nicolò himself jumps, startled, but lets out a laugh as he turns to the lady.  
« What happened to the good old etiquette? »  
« Never heard of it! Now be a doll and help me with these books, my arms are tired. » Yusuf watches them as they struggle to fix the remaining books, waiting to offer his help but at the same time it’s like he’s mesmerized by the scene itself and by these two people who seem to be so close to each other. He’s about to introduce himself when the old lady finally acknowledges him with the warmest smile on her face and an outstretched hand in his direction. 

« Well, aren’t you a piece of cake? » she chirps up and eagerly shakes his hand « I don’t think I have ever seen you around. But Nicola, have you heard about that thing? » the lady promptly changes the subject, looking around just to catch Nicolò’s gaze again and pat him urgently on his shoulder « _Cäo_ , did you know that those awful people made the Smith’s close their little shop? The one at the end of the street? You loved that place when you were a child. »  
« The children bookstore? » Nicolò inquires with a concerned look on his face « They announced that they were going to endure just a week ago. What happened? »  
« The big company purchased the store! » the old lady blurts out and open her arms « The only thing left to do was to give it up! _Péssi de merdaieu-_ »  
« So. » Nicolò chimes in, a distressed smile on his lips « Yusuf, meet my aunt Lydia. Auntie, this is Yusuf, a new friend of mine. »  
« My pleasure, my pleasure. But tell me, _caro_ , don’t you think the Al-Kaysani corporation is a bunch of assholes too? »

Some people deal with embarrassment in the easiest way, chasing it away with a snap of a finger as if it were just an annoying bug on their shoulders. Others get confused and feel their cheeks and the tips of their ears burning up. Yusuf seems to be part of the second group, especially when his insides seems to be melting on the spot in this right moment. If only he could dig a hole in the floor just so he could bury himself inside it and let the world forget about him. He wants to forget his name and everything that goes with it, because if Nicolò knew the truth he would no longer smile at him like that. And that’s an occurrence he doesn’t want to consider yet.  
« …Yes. They are the worst. » Yusuf clears his throat a couple of times and adverts his gaze, then he looks around like he’s searching for something. He clearly remembers that his sister has long wanted a particular collection of poetry and this for sure is the right place to find it just when he needs it the most. So Yusuf starts rummaging through the books on a shelf nearby, looking for anything that could divert the attention from his family and their despicable business choices. 

He eventually finds the book he was looking for, just when his phone starts beeping persistently and a text message appears at the top of his lockscreen. He would have preferred to ignore the message altogether, to be honest, but since the very first words it was pretty difficult to actually ignore its reach: in the end his grandfather has always been used to claim rather than ask. So different from the young man that right now is listening politely to his old aunt, nodding to show his interest to her, looking in his direction every now and then to let a sweeter smile bloom on his face. After a long deep breath Yusuf walks in his direction again, an apologize on the tip of his tongue before saying goodbye for the evening. No matter how many positive sides working in your family business may bring there can be quite a few downsides, including having to submit to their conditions. Scheduled events were one of them. 

« As much I’d like to stay here, apparently there was a little emergency. Oh, no, nothing serious. » he quickly adds when Mrs. Lydia gives him a concerned glance « Before leaving, I’d like to tell you something. May I? » the urgency in his voice could have been perceptible enough to be picked up picked from the lady, even just by the way she hurries off to leave them alone. He tries not to laugh out loud when she gives him a little wink before storming out of the main entrance, but he’s quick to catch his cool and turn to Nicolò again, his fingers still clutching his phone.  
What risks would he face if he told him the truth?  
Would he get mad? Would he think about him as nothing but a liar and never speak to him again?  
Is this worth the risk?

Not yet. Not today.

« Next time we met, I would like to be alone with you. No lovely aunts, no working schedules, anything. I would like to take you somewhere nice, a quiet place, just to be with you. » this may not have been the very “confession” he had in mind, but why not take a little risk for once? « Would you like to? »  
But, when Nicolò smiles to him, every doubt and every caution seem to fade into the air in the blink of an eye. And he’s lost, again and forever.

« I would love to. »

The road back home never looked more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cäo_ \- "dear" in genoese
> 
> _Péssi de merdaieu_ \- "pieces of sh*t" in genoese
> 
> _caro_ \- "dear" in italian


End file.
